I was sitting at my dining room table earlier
geeking out to Doctor Who when I saw a man I didn’t recognize on the side of the house. Given that I could hear a very large lawnmower going outside, I just figured that the gardener and his associates had come a day early for some reason and didn’t think too much of it.
A few hours later, I was just about to head out the door to go to work when I remembered that I needed to go lock the gates outside; the ones that the gardener’s worker had let himself in using.
Only both gates were already locked. From the inside.
Trying to process that on the way to work, I thought, “Okay, Janae…if he had wanted to kill you, then he already would have–
Yeah, unless he’s a psychopath who gets off on watching his victims suffer!! You think he can’t be a sadist just because he’s not a well-to-do white man?! That’s racist! He has just as much potential to be a nightmare murderface as Christian Bale did in that movie you never saw!”
This is my brain. These are my thoughts.
Now I’m home alone with the alarm on hoping for the best.
This seems like one of those times when having a boyfriend would be nice. Maybe if I did I wouldn’t feel like sleeping with my door locked and a knife under my pillow.
I actually think about the fact that I am going to die a lot. I know some people find that morbid, but I don’t. It’s the the only certain thing I can count on happening to me in this life.
Maybe Jesse Williams will leave his wife for me in a way that is amicable and leaves no lingering psychological or financial scars and
I will hit my head and therefore want to have a Josephine Baker amount of children.
Or maybe I’ll publish all the books I want to write and one of them will be turned into an IMAX podcast hologram.
Maybe I’ll fall in love in Australia. Maybe it will break my heart like Vancouver.
Maybe I’ll outgrow my wheat allergy.
The only thing for sure is that I will die and I find that endlessly fascinating.
I just hope it’s not tonight.